


Those Distractions

by anniesburg



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Death, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mistaken Identity, One Shot, The Year Hosea Got Drunk, not very romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Hosea keeps most of his regrets to himself, until he doesn't.





	Those Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> i was fully intending to write something fluffy/smutty but instead i went for pain. and no one is surprised.

Hosea knows how to unfold your heart. He looks at you across the fire while he drinks his evening whisky. You’re aware, however, that the only thing separating it from morning and noon whisky is the amount. A bottle’s clenched in his hands and there is no indication at all on his face that he intends to share. 

Arthur can’t stand him right now and Dutch offers no comfort. John’s fucked off, what else is new. But Hosea’s mourning, you know the depth of that particular pain. Drink can dull it, you suppose, but it makes it sharper in other ways. 

The flames dance between you and you’re drawn to them, staring at the orange curls and yellow sparks. It’s so funny, you think, that the man across the fire taught you to look for the skipping girls and galloping horses that hide themselves amongst the coals. 

Someone’s playing the fiddle, the music starts up suddenly and it carries your thoughts away from pitying poor Hosea. Bessie’s been buried six months but you know wounds that take longer to heal. Bitterly, you know that Dutch wouldn’t expect him to recover in a matter of months if his heart were literally broken. 

“How you feelin’, Hosea?” You ask him. He gives a one-shoulder shrug, not in the mood for talking. You pat the ground beside you, enough deer pelt beside you to accommodate another. “Come sit with me?” 

He doesn’t answer again, but he stands up on unsteady legs and walks around the fire. Hosea sits down hard next to you, distant enough to worry. Part of you wonders if Dutch is right to be concerned, or if he just doesn’t understand. 

But you’d rather not have the old Matthews back, not if it’s at the expense of his wife. Let him mourn, even if no one else can stand the sight of it. 

You lift your hand, putting it delicately on his shoulder. After a moment, he shrugs it away and lifts the bottle to his lips. All’s silent but the crackling fire and the sound of the fiddle. Cranky drunk, you suppose, so different to how it used to be. But you don’t leave him, you’ve seen him more alone these past few weeks than ever before. 

If you were to see all the things you hear from his tent late at night, the tears and the angry growls it’d break your heart he knows so well how to reveal. You’ve never seen the man cry, but it looks like now isn’t going to be the first time. 

Hosea lies back after twenty minutes of silence. He tilts his hat down, in front of his eyes to block out the firelight. His breathing evens out and you can hear the occasional, soft snore from under the brim. He’s asleep, you’re alone for a change in a manner of speaking. 

“How’s he doing?” It’s Dutch, you turn and see him emerging from the tent with the lockbox outside of it. Now it’s your turn to wordlessly shrug. “That bad, huh?” 

Lots of questions tonight, no answers. You give a sad glance down at Hosea, his chest rises and falls rhythmically. To your surprise, Dutch takes his spot across the fire as you begin to untangle the whisky from the man’s hand. 

“Don’t think he drank that much tonight,” you say, holding it up to the light and checking how much is left. A little less than half. 

“It’s his second bottle,” Dutch corrects you and your heart sinks. He snorts at your expression, apparently it’s sank, too. 

“Damn,” you mumble.

“The longer this goes on, the harder it’ll be to sober him up,” he continues and you find yourself nodding in agreement. 

“I’m worried, too,” you confess. He already knows. “but I feel bad takin’ this from him.” 

“It ain’t like it’s all he’s got left,” Dutch reminds you. But sometimes it feels like it does. You don’t really know what came first, the drink or the loneliness but Hosea’s done a good job of chasing away most everyone else. 

It’s tough to say, when you’re surrounded by boneheaded, heartless cowboys. 

“Let him miss his wife, Dutch.” You all but growl, he doesn’t take kindly to that.

“Now, he is killin’ himself.” He insists. Somewhere, deep down, you know that’s truer than anything he’s ever said before. It makes your chest ache. 

“I don’t wanna fight,” you start, he cuts you off. 

“Then stop pickin’ ‘em.” His accent thickens up when he’s mad, you notice. Your shoulders droop. 

“I wish---” you begin again when the silence is unbearable, “I wish there was someone, anyone he could go after. Revenge ain’t good but it’s a motivator.” 

Dutch looks at Hosea over the tops of the flames. He doesn’t say it, but he agrees with what you mean. 

“He’s got nothin’, nobody to blame. She’s just gone ‘cause sometimes people get sick.” Your voice goes low and thick with tears you won’t shed. Nobody here’s seen you cry, either. 

“It’s somethin’,” Dutch grunts. He toes at the earth with his clean boot. 

The sadness doesn’t last long, you find yourself glaring hard at the bottle of whisky you took from Hosea. With a grunt, you throw it as hard as you can at the tree to your left. It shatters into a thousand pieces with a loud sound. 

Hosea sleeps through it, thank goodness. You imagine he’ll be out until morning, you wish you could’ve convinced him to drink a little water before passing out. His head’s going to kill him come tomorrow. 

“I wish I knew how to help him,” you sigh. Dutch makes a noise of agreement. 

“Me, too,” he states. You want to laugh.

Believing in the best in people happens to be either a brilliant blessing or a serious curse. You look at Dutch, staring at his friend rendered desolate and lost by death. You want to believe that he means it when he says that, that he just doesn’t know what to do around the grim reaper. 

“Poor thing,” you say, shifting beside him and putting your hand on Hosea’s bony knee. The sound of breaking glass didn’t stir him, but the contact does. He makes a soft sound as he wakes, reaching up to push his hat away from his eyes. 

“Didn’t think we’d be seein’ you ‘til mornin’,” you say, already beginning to smile. Hosea sits up slowly, looking at you with a mix of confusion and frightening reverence. 

“Where have you been?” He asks, his voice sounds similar to how it does sober. There’s a hint of a warble, of an uncanny clarity. His tone tells you he’s not listening to what you have to say, but you try anyway. 

“What? I’ve been---” he cuts you off. 

“I’ve been looking for you damn-near everywhere.” Hosea tells you. You want to glance over at Dutch with a question in your eyes, you try to play it off like a joke. 

“Would you listen to him? Sounds like we got another wild one who can’t hold his liquor.” There’s a false laugh in your voice, a forced smile that Dutch barely returns. You turn to Hosea again and your smile falls. The firelight’s reflected in his wet eyes. 

“Bessie,” he starts, “I’m sorry, pretty,” 

Oh god, oh help. Your eyes search his face, hoping for the best opportunity to set him straight. But it’s not going to come, you know it, Hosea’s louder when he continues. 

“It’s all my fault, isn’t it? I got distracted, pulled back here. You didn’t want to come. So I need you to know that I’m so sorry, I didn’t listen, I---” he’s on the edge of babbling, the sound of him is tearing at the inside of your chest. “If I had the chance to do it over, if I could do it again---” 

“I forgive you.” You don’t know what possess you to say that. From across the fire pit you can feel Dutch’s accusatory stare. You can only hope that Hosea’ll be as merciful should he ever find out. “I forgive you,” it bears repeating as the man leaning towards you struggles to find the way to say his guilt. 

You lift your hand, touching his trembling arm. One more time, your voice barely a whisper, you tell Hosea what he needs to hear. 

It all happens so fast, but it’s not like you try to avoid it. He leans in, strong despite all his sadness. Hosea tilts his head and he kisses you. It’s not for long, he’s not rough or mean with his mouth. It’s just a kiss and you can feel warm water on your cheeks. His tears or yours, it’s anyone’s guess. 

He tastes like whisky and salt, like he’s pored over the loss of an amazing woman for six months. You don’t have the heart to deny him this, he looks so lost and so painfully alone. Your hand leaves his arm, cupping his cheek and you close your wide, startled eyes. 

Let him think it’s her, you say. Can’t hurt, what he doesn’t know won’t cause any pain. You hope he remembers what he needs to of this, you hope he can find an ounce of comfort because you don’t know what else to offer. 

Dutch isn’t impressed, but you get the sense that he needed to see this just as badly as Hosea needed to hear it. 

And then it’s over. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck. You have a choice, you suppose, but you can’t imagine pushing him away. You wrap your arm around his thin shoulders and pull him tight against you. He’s asleep before you’re even sure what’s happened. 

Dutch, a few paces away, lets out a sigh. He stands up, adjusts his vest and walks back towards his tent. 

Somewhere in the dark, the fiddle stops and you hold Hosea tighter.


End file.
